


A Night in Petersburg

by Fandom_Overload7890



Series: Long Nights in Far Away Cities [1]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 17:54:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11879754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Overload7890/pseuds/Fandom_Overload7890
Summary: Anatole reflects.





	A Night in Petersburg

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this really late at night so this might not be the best writing. This takes place in Petersburg (obviously) after the events of the show. I don't recommend you read this if you are struggling with self-esteem issues. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or any of the events spoken about that happen also in Great Comet.

The darkness covers him. It wraps him up and hugs him. It traps him in it’s embrace, spreading over his arms and torso. His chest, his face. It blankets on top of him, leaving no section of skin untouched. The darkness flows through his veins. It’s inhaled through his lungs and moves around in his mouth. Fills up every corner of him until there is no empty space left. The darkness consumed him. It robbed him of of his happiness, his joyfulness until there was nothing left. Nothing that looked like Anatole Kuragin laying in that dark bedroom. 

It could have been ten at night, or five in the morning. It was all the same to him now. Time had no meaning. All darkness was the same. 

The same darkness in the corners of the box where he first spoke to Natalie Rostova. 

The darkness that shrouded the club where he sat with his sister and her lover (his lover) and listened to Pierre wax about the tragedies of his life. 

The darkness that covered him as he attempted to steal the girl he loved into the night. Attempted. Attempted and failed. 

Because that's all that Anatole was. A failure. One large mistake that just kept going. He couldn't seem to break the cycle. The endless parade of sex and drinking that led him into countless mistakes. Countless heartbroken women. Countess Natalya Rostova’s. Countless women like his wife. 

No, he didn't want to think of that. 

His mind did drift to other failed prospects though. His hand wandered to the right side of the bed. It was falling cold since it's occupant left it. Outside if he strained he could still hear Dolokhov though. Wearing his way through the floorboards. Muttering to himself like always after they did their dance. Begging for forgiveness from his cross. 

Dolokhov was always like that. He started off passionate, so sure of what they were doing. He was strong and sure and Anatole fell for it every time. Of course Anatole did. Dolokhov was his rock. The one who guided Anatole, showed him right from wrong when his big sister wasn’t around. 

But when alcohol was involved, the lines between right and wrong got blurred. On nights like tonight, when they would go out and drink for hours. The world would become hazy and smudged. Feelings were amplified, and his friends face glowed in the candle light. Dolokhov looked beautiful on nights like tonight. And Anatole was never one to refuse something beautiful. 

Afterward, though, he was distant. Cool like the assassin he is. Back to his hard edges and stern self. He would repeat the same things over. It's not right, Anatole. We can't ever do this again, Anatole. It's a sin, Anatole. 

Maybe that's all Anatole was. A sin. It certainly made sense. With his vanity and lust. But could he really be blamed? His looks was all he had. He wasn't smart like Helene. Or strong like Dolokhov. Kind like Pierre. He was pretty. So Anatole used his gifts while he had them. Fucked his way into anything he wanted. He used what he was given. Gifted with looks that would aid him in his youth and abandon him in his age. Skin would wrinkle. Edges would soften. And then, Anatole would be left with nothing. Nothing but useless looks and a run down liver. 

Maybe that's when Natasha would have left him had the elopement gone according to plan. When he became old and gray. Because she didn't love him. Not really. That passion and urgency wasn't love. It was lust. It was the fleeting youthfulness of Natasha as she grew up and the pressing weight of war on Anatole. They were attracted to each other. Nothing more than the need for another body to help starve off the cold of Moscow. He knew this because he knew lust. But who knows? Anatole had never been in love before. 

Well, that’s not true. He loved Helene. He cared for her. Worried about her. Wished her well in every possible way. He would do anything for the women who stuck by him for longer than anyone before. Who was there for him after every wrong girl and bar brawl. He loved her in a long term way. It wasn’t short and fleeting, burning bright in the moment then fizzling out into nothing. No, his love for Helene could last the test of time. He would love her still when he was eighty like how he loved her at eight. She was a constant in his life and she would always be. 

He didn’t exactly love Fedya Dolokhov. Of course he felt affection towards his friend. How could he not? But love felt like too strong of a label. To affectionate for the man that would stick with him through thick and thin on the streets but abandon him in the bedroom. Fedya Dolokhov was unreliable. Or maybe he was too predictable. It was too easy to tell where the assassin would be solid and where he would drop away. But to be fair to his only friend, Dolokhov did always stay to clean up the mess Anatole left in his wake. Maybe that was the kind of thing done out of love. 

It didn’t really matter. Anatole wasn’t deserving of love anyway. Pierre Bezukhov said it perfectly himself. Anatole was a scoundrel, a blaggard. He was a vile and heartless brood, nothing but the dirt scraped off the bottom of better men’s shoes. Those words that Pierre said, those had cut deep. Deeper than any other insults lobbed Anatole’s way (sodomite, man whore, ugly). It could be because it was Pierre that said them. Anatole’s brother in law. Someone he once considered a friend. Or, it could be because they were true. 

But who was Pierre to say those things? To judge him? Pierre was no better. He was nothing but a bastard who happened to get lucky. He drunk more than Anatole and Dolokhov combined and bitched to half the city. Pierre wasn’t a good man. He knew that Anatole was married. Knew of the plans of elopement. Knew of the bigamy. Yet, he was still in that bar, drinking and toasting, wishing Anatole “happiness, freedom, and life!” If there was anyone, anyone, who didn’t have the right to claim superiority over Anatole, it was Pierre Bezukhov.

Anatole scrubbed his eyes. He didn’t want to think of these things. Pierre, or times when things were still good, when life still had hope. And he certainly didn’t want to think anymore about the abduction. So he laid there, looking at the window. Tracing his fingers over the empty space his friend was supposed to be. He watched the night sky, the darkness, and waited. He waited for a sunrise that would bring a new day, and possibly, if Anatole was foolish enough, new hope.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! Please leave a kudos or comment if you did! If you want to scream with me about Great Comet you can find me on Tumber here: https://caven---malore.tumblr.com/


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